


Ranger of the Night

by janetcarter



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: M/M, internalized alienfuckerphobia, marked as mature to be safe but not a very serious fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 04:13:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17697440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janetcarter/pseuds/janetcarter
Summary: It's amateur night at Downbelow's favorite strip-club.





	Ranger of the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kanadka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanadka/gifts).



> “This above all: to thine ownself be true.” - Hamlet
> 
> Minbari words for later reference:  
> Anla'shok - ranger  
> Doxhouse - brothel  
> Dox - sex worker  
> Ingati - Minbar's equivalent of a grizzly bear  
> Sha’cha - a non-alcoholic Minbari drink

Neroon certainly never would have come here on his own volition. Dockworker incompetence delayed his transport, stranding him in the least pristine sector of the station. Specifically, he was stranded an impure establishment surrounded by animals of the most perverted natures. The only familiar relief was the sha’chai bubbling in his glass.

As he drank from the very back of the club, a Drazi performer flung their sash into the crowd. Races from the farthest reaches of space cheered while a Narn lunged for it. The station was a failure at its goal of peace and integration, but this atrocity of a bar appeared to be an exception.

The current song faded to audience chatter, stage lights dimming to black. The darkness was a comfort, but obnoxious laughter and stray whistles pierced his ears.

The announcer's voice boomed over the loudspeaker. "And now, please welcome to the stage: Marvelous…" His voice dwindled. "Marvelous Mercutio!"

The audience erupted, prompting Neroon to squint from beneath his hood. The spotlight had snapped into place, illuminating this _Marvel._ Although the performer’s back faced the crowd, they were obviously human. Not even a Brakiri would boast a head of hair that shiny, that thick. As his gaze lowered down the performer’s tight leather jacket, he found the cause of the audience’s reaction: Neon pink shorts accentuated the human’s ass, bedazzled in Earth letters he could not decipher.

Neroon _would_ keep his eyes locked to his sha’chai, but there was a certain familiarity to the performer as they gripped the pole, stance wide…

He choked on his drink as their face met the crowd, turning to the sharp first beat. Those dark, luscious locks, unfortunately gorgeous rear, and confident stance were all property of Anla'shok Extraordinaire Marcus Cole.

He adjusted himself in his seat as the music continued. He should leave now and save himself the embarrassment, but the dockworkers would surely take longer. He lowered his hood even more. There was no reason to depart from this disastrous circus due to a personal vendetta with the ingati; not that Marcus entirely _fit_ that descriptor.

Marcus curved his slim leg around the pole, careful of his shoe’s spiked heel, before spinning into pose. One hand gripped the pole as he dipped backward, magnificent hair flowing behind him. As he did his tricks, thrusting and grinding, his shorts rode up his thighs in a way they truly had no right to. Neroon carefully watched the hemlines rise, causing his body to tense **.** Marcus dared to wear the title of Anla’shok when _this_ is how he behaves? No matter his dedication, this… this was a dishonor. Neroon needed to put an end to this display, but… stepping into the light would only bring more shame.

Marcus slid down the pole before strutting around in his heels with sheer prowess. He pouted seductively as he zipped his jacket up and down, teasing not only matching pink fabric, but dark chest curls. When the zipper got stuck, he walked smack into the pole and stumbled to the stage floor. Neroon sighed. He certainly did evoke enough shame for the both of them. Marcus hardly took a moment to react before sticking his leg up in the air, smiling that mischievous, daring smile. It was so very like him: incapable of surrendering to the pain and humiliation of defeat.

And yet, somehow, the damn man was more intriguing the more disastrous he proved himself to be. In fact, Marcus was _such_ a disaster, it would be a crime for Neroon take his eyes off him as he threw his jacket to the crowd. As the same Narn from earlier dove to catch it, Neroon’s heartbeat quickened. He clenched his teeth and squinted at the thief.

But before he could give the predicament much thought, a very revealing, pink shirt sparkled against Marcus’ chest. Neroon tugged at his collar. The room only grew hotter as Marcus flipped his hair and fervently stroked his hand down his body. Despite the disgrace he brought the Anla’shok, Neroon’s eyes remained transfixed. Marcus bent over, showing off his ass to the audience before finally tearing away his shorts.

The crowd cheered, whistled, and made an assortment of other ungodly noises as his undergarments glowed in the dark. He flew around the pole, attire revealing entirely too much and… somehow not enough **.** The determination with which he climbed the damn thing was almost impressive. Neroon, upon imagining himself in its place, flinched as though he'd been slapped by an invisible hand belonging to Valen himself.

When he returned his gaze to the stage, Marcus was leaning off the pole backwards. His hands still clung to metal, but long, thick hair fell to gravity's command. Despite the distance, Neroon reached out as though to tangle his hands into it. He quickly grabbed his sha'chai glass instead, gripping it between his palms as tightly as Marcus gripped the pole.

After a _lot_ more thrusting than Neroon knew possible of humans, Marcus finished his performance with a split that made a significant part of the audience wince. Although the smoke slightly obscured his view, Neroon swore Marcus winked at him as he strutted off stage.

It had to have been his imagination, skewed from the bizarre performance. After all, he was hidden in the darkness of the crowd. Still, he downed the rest of his drink. Just before rising from his seat, a voice from behind assaulted him with chills.

"Ah, Neroon! So kind of you to drop by and support my creative pursuits." Of course, there stood Marcus, glistening as he tugged his shirt back into place. What he saw before Marcus' face, however, was his crotch. Marcus could apparently say the same. "Is that your pike in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

Neroon shifted, still clutching his empty glass. "Hello, _Marcus_ \--Or… Marvelous Mercutio, was it?" He cleared his throat, ridding his tongue of the disgusting combination of words. "Did you grow so tired of losing battles that you've fallen into _doxhouse_ employment?"

Marcus shrugged. "Oh, well, after our little duel the doctors said I would never dance again, broken ribs and all--"

"It was merely three."

"It hurt!" he exclaimed **,** throwing his hands up in the air.

"Was it not _you_ who invoked denn’shah? Your shortcomings are the fault of none but your own!" Not to mention his race’s biological inferiority, though after tonight’s display… There may be slightly more to human physiology than he once believed.

"Funny you should say that, actually! I was practicing with my pike, as you seem to think I should do more often, and realized I had a knack for taking off all my clothes and thrusting rigorously into a pole!" Neroon sharply inhaled at the thought of Marcus straddling the pike. Marcus grinned before gesturing down beneath his tight, shimmering top. "And it's a marvelous workout! I mean, really, have you _seen_ my abdominals?"

He could not entirely disagree, stifling the urge to touch. They were not as prominent as a warrior's _should_ be, but a dark trail of curly hair led underneath his insufferably tight shorts…

"They are… hard to miss…" He swallowed. "What was it that was written on…"

"Oh!" Marcus jumped into position, pointing over his shoulders to his ass. " _Juicy_."

Once his ability to speak returned, Neroon scoffed. "Does that not refer to fruit?"

"Normally yes, but… Really, it's better demonstrated than explained.” Marcus leaned toward him. Neroon hardly remembered to draw breath as Marcus whispered: "I believe such a thing would call for a more… private presentation."

Neroon recoiled from his haze. Marcus proved himself more foolish by the moment he believed he would ever stoop to such a level. “Have you finally lost your mind?”

"Oh, don’t play dumb. No one comes here for a drink without picking up a _snack_ along the way.” Marcus ran his hands through that gorgeous head of hair. Only its forbidden texture could quench a thirst the sha'chai had not.

He forced out the words lest he choke on others: “You flatter yourself far too highly.”

“You could hardly take your eyes off me!”

“I was simply astounded by the dishonor you bring the Anla’shok!”

"Oh, well if that’s the case, it’s a good thing your wandering eyes are suddenly disinterested. Private shows are for people who _don't_ break their dox's ribs!"

Neroon scowled, gripping the glass so hard it nearly shattered. Whatever the letters meant were of no importance. They most certainly never had been; not even now as Marcus strutted away, mystery word mocking him. The notion that he had any… _intentions_ with _Marcus Cole_ was a fantasy so preposterous, it could only have been conceived by the lowest of humankind.

He stormed from the club, intending to turn a corner and arrive directly at Customs. But he had traveled much farther from his transport than he knew.


End file.
